


Tesco Finest and a Gesture of Kindness

by AngeNoir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Meeting, Gen, Pre-Series, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who can deal with more than one kind of milk? Not Sherlock. But when a complete stranger comes up, genuinely seems to care about Sherlock's health and day, and puts a milk carton in Sherlock's basket, well...</p>
<p>Sherlock knows there are lines about stalking behaviors, but it's a Tesco, that's common property, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tesco Finest and a Gesture of Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> “I have this idea that Sherlock and John meet at a Tesco. Sherlock lives on his own and has NO IDEA whats the deal with all the milk brands and types and he knows Mycroft told him something about them… Then John comes in and tells him something like “you should get this one” And walks away… Sherlock then stalks John all the time while at the Tesco. Any rating.”
> 
> I hope this matches what you were looking for and you enjoy it!

Lestrade and Mycroft had been quite severe in their reprimands. Until he proved that he could live for two months on his own, without spiraling back into addiction, he was banned from crime scenes and cut off from his inheritance. Not that he _needed_ his inheritance, or that he needed the crime scenes that Lestrade had – he could always find his own, and Mrs. Hudson had graciously allowed him to stay for six weeks without paying any rent. After that, well… Sherlock had lived on the streets before, and he’d do it again if the other option was running back to Mycroft, begging for money. He still had his pride, even if he had precious little else.

As it was, he was standing in the nearest Tesco’s, staring at the glass doors and the various brands of milk. Not just brands, because that was simple enough. No, there were all these various _kinds_ and he quite honestly didn’t comprehend any of them. Whole, skimmed, semi-skimmed, creamfield (was that just a brand, or was that a _type_?), and one percent. Then there was apparently a war going on in the refrigerated doors between organic, whatever _wasn’t_ organic, local choice, functional, filtered, oh, and of course, branded or not.

“Rough night?”

Sherlock turned to see a nondescript man, short and dressed in a brown wooly jumper, there with a basket and an aluminum cane. “Excuse me?” he said, drawing the words out disdainfully.

“Looked like you’re having a spot of trouble with the milk,” the man replied, smiling lightly.

 The man stood perfectly fine upright, no shifting from hip to hip as if a leg bothered him, though his approaching footsteps had the distinct pattern of a limp. Psychosomatic, then, further explained by the tan and the military-like bearing – a soldier, then, invalided home, most likely from either Afghanistan or Iraq. Not _just_ a soldier; a doctor, by the look of the corner of his medical badge poking up from his trouser pockets. Lives alone; state of the basket isn’t enough for two. Fairly sedentary lifestyle – either that, or the jumper did him no justice.

“Well, it’s my own personal choice, but I prefer Tesco Finest. A bit of sweet, and refreshing. Try not to have any more late nights, eh? Makes it difficult to shop at six in the morning.” With a smile and a nod, the man moved to the door, opened it, and removed one carton before walking off.

Sherlock blinked at the empty space and had to admit that withdrawal was doing him no favors at all.

 

***

 

Sherlock would swear by his last breath the second meeting was coincidence. He hadn’t established the man’s shopping patterns yet, after all. There were quite a few times he’d come in and had waited until seven before returning to his flat having bought nothing at all.

 

***

 

The third time Sherlock would be hard pressed to admit that the meeting was coincidental.

 

***

 

By the fourth he’d stopped pretending and would instead stand in front of the various milks, waiting for the nameless man to walk up, put a carton in both his own and Sherlock’s basket, remark that Sherlock was looking much better this time, and leave. It was through this process that Sherlock learned what days the man shopped and what others he didn’t, when it was too early or when it was too late, and though the stock-boys gave him sidelong looks, he really didn’t care enough about society or humanity in general to spare them a passing glance.

 

***

 

“You’re doing better, I see.”

“No one invited you up, Mycroft.”

Sherlock didn’t turn around as his brother took a seat behind him. His brother did this regularly, appearing up in the afternoons, pretending to be checking up on him when really he was looking for any sign that Sherlock was failing.

“Mrs. Hudson did. Lovely woman. Nice discount she gave you, considering you’re in the richer area of Central London and you barely have to pay 500 pounds a month.”

“I’m not making or dealing drugs, Mycroft, as I’m sure your spying has revealed.”

“No. No, you aren’t. You’re not pacing the flat any more than you paced your room. You’re not crawling the walls looking for an exit. In short, Sherlock, you’re doing far, far better than even I had dreamed to hope for, and I’m wondering what brought about this change in heart?”

Sherlock thought to the man who would comment on Sherlock’s state, wishing him well every time they met up. “Keep on wondering, Mycroft,” he murmured as he tucked his violin under his chin.

He barely had time to catch the weary sigh before he started in with the most grating tune he could whip up. It was mere minutes before he heard the door to his flat close, though he kept up the caterwauling until the black car pulled away from the curb.

 

***

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock finally said one day, the eighth time they had been in the aisle at the same time, almost two full months since that first meeting. He had debated just not showing up, on a day when he knew the man was supposed to show up, and then follow the man home and get a street number and a personality based on window décor and, most importantly, an explanation for why, without fail, every time this man saw him he asked how Sherlock was doing, made some small talk, and put a milk carton in Sherlock’s basket before walking away. However, he knew from experience that kind of behavior was called stalking and was not taken well when two people were virtually strangers

If they weren’t strangers, however…

“Sherlock Holmes, hmm?” the man said, smiling faintly. This time, the wrinkles on his face were more pronounced, and his eyes looked vacant. That had been true the second time they’d happened onto one another, four days after the first time. It was easy to see the nightmares, insomnia, in the more pronounced limp, rumpled state of clothing, and carved lines of the man’s face. “My name’s John Watson,” he responded, putting his hand out to be shaken.

Sherlock took the hand and swallowed. He was so bad at social interaction that his manners didn’t even show up most of the time, as Lestrade’s team and Mycroft’s men could attest. “How long until your shift at the clinic?”

The man – John, Sherlock immediately corrected himself, finding his references to ‘the man’ in his brain and inserting the name where it belonged – cocked his head at Sherlock, some of the emptiness leaving his face. “Beg pardon?”

“I – merely wondered how long until you must be on shift at the local clinic?” Sherlock repeated, realizing that it probably wasn’t an appropriate question at six twenty-seven in the morning.

“How did you know about the clinic?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock couldn’t help the thrill that raced through his veins, more seductive than even his seven percent solution or his favorite smokes. “Easily, of course. Plastic badge in your pocket, with a clip to be pinned on your breast, clothes that are warm because doctor offices are notoriously cold, every once in a while the tip of your badge will appear and the corner of the logo can be seen, clearly not a surgeon, not with those hands, but with the skill to be one with your precise movements, I’d say. Perhaps you were one, once – you have the index fingers for it, at least – but the psychosomatic limp might have come with the hand trembles. Not only the badge, of course, but the choices in your basket are always conservative – saving money, so you must be in need of the work or better paying work, which only makes sense considering an army pension is difficult to live off of in today’s London. Not in need of work, not with a badge that recent, and bigger hospitals pay more, so, clinic. Also, if saving money, you obviously won’t be using taxis, and your cane indicates that you’d rather not do a lot of walking. Therefore, not one of the big hospitals that takes a while to get to – no, you’d pick something nearby, no matter how overqualified you might be for it, and you do enjoy the work even though it must be so horribly mundane to patch up citizens when you’ve seen a war.”

There was a long stretch of silence, long enough that Sherlock remembered how people didn’t actually like him doing that, didn’t enjoy having their personal life explained to them from the callouses on their fingers or the twist of their tie, and he began regretting indulging in his need to show off.

“That… was…” John shook his head, and his eyes were completely light now, almost – shining. “Amazing. Absolutely – brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked at John a moment and then let out a half-laugh. “That’s not what people normally say,” he murmured.

“What do they normally say, then?” John asked.

Sherlock stared at John a moment longer before letting the corner of his mouth twist up in a smile. “Piss off.”

John smiled. “I wonder why. In answer to your question, I go shopping on the days I have off; no shift later.”

Sherlock stared at John a moment, hesitating, and then decided he had nothing to lose beyond someone who stopped by in the morning and remarked on Sherlock’s state, and really, he wanted to know more about this funny man who had helped him find a milk jug and was amazed at what was a basic ability for Sherlock. “Would you like to have dinner? I know a good Italian place; dinner’s on me.”

“Oh.” John blinked at him, a soft look of confusion on his face before hitching one shoulder. “I suppose you could explain the rest of what you said then, if you’re busy.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to feel confusion. “I’m – not busy.”

John bit his lip, looked down at the floor a moment, and then looked up again with a smile. “Well, I don’t make a half-bad omelet. You could come over for breakfast, after putting your groceries away.”

There was a moment when Sherlock just froze, trying to understand the willing invitation into John’s house, John’s private space, and John seemed to backpedal quickly.

“Of course, I don’t want to seem too forward; perhaps you have a night shift or something of the like and need to get some rest. You do look more rested today, if you don’t mind my saying so; of course I can just make it for dinner—”

“Breakfast is acceptable,” Sherlock interjected, still thrown by the offer mere moments after proper introductions. “I, ah… ought to put the groceries away?”

John chuckled. “I’d say so. After all, wouldn’t want the milk to sour in my flat while we ate, would we?”

Which was how Sherlock found himself unlocking the front door for 221b Baker Street, early enough that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t up and about yet. He took the stairs quickly, as was his habit, and came into his flat and stopped, suddenly awkward. John was following him up the steps, but it was a slow and laborious process and so Sherlock could stand in the doorway of his flat and wonder what to do with the other cartons of milk that sat, soured, on the countertop. After all, he didn’t _use_ the milk all that often enough to buy it, though John obviously did. And milk was relatively inexpensive enough not to drain the bit of money he had left to get him through the rest of the month until he’d proven to Mycroft and Lestrade he was perfectly fine on his own and no longer slave to his addiction. He’d been buying the milk and leaving it on the counter, the same brand, with the receipts carelessly strewn about the table.

Dashing into the kitchen, he swept the receipts up along with quite a few of the cartons and binned them, but they wouldn’t all fit and so he cast his mind about for somewhere else to stash them.

“Dear me, Sherlock, what do you do in here?” came John’s voice from the front doorway. “Smells like spoilt milk.”

Well, bollocks.

Coming around the corner, John stopped and eyed the three milk cartons sitting on the counter and then looked at Sherlock a bit askance. “Have you never put any of them away? They’ll go bad, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said quickly, letting his eyes travel over the various science apparatuses and coming to a fast conclusion. “I am merely using milk as a test to see how long it takes for it to spoil, under varying circumstances with varying contaminators, and what you see before you is the last of the lot.” And it wasn’t even that much of a lie, though in truth that had been an experiment he’d conducted when thirteen, not thirty-three. “Important knowledge.”

“Of course,” John murmured, though his eyes looked amused. Turning halfway towards the front room, he asked, “I suppose you come from a much higher station in life than I’m used to.”

Sherlock inclined his head, even as he opened the fridge to find a place to put this day’s milk in. It was a bit difficult; he’d been hoarding body parts, since the ban against his presence at crime scenes extended to the morgue.

“Are those – feet?” John asked curiously.

“Yes, yes, another experiment; you can tell a lot about a person by the callouses on their feet and toes,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Does milk go in the freezer?”

With a sigh, John maneuvered his way around the overflowing table and the bits of paper and books and clothing that cluttered the tile. “Here,” he muttered, elbowing Sherlock out of the way and matter-of-factly moving the eyeballs and tongues to the inside of the door. “Though you might end up contaminating the milk. Scratch that, you _will_ end up contaminating the milk. Do you have any hot water and soap? Let’s make at least one shelf just for food and not have your bloody experiments messing with what you need to eat.”

“I never eat,” Sherlock stated disdainfully, though he willingly enough went to the kitchen sink and started running the hot water.

When he came back with the requisite cloth with soap and hot water, John had rearranged much of his interior so that the top shelf held three different takeout containers, a forlorn, scraggly looking bag of potatoes, and four heads of lettuce in varying stages of freshness.

“That one on the end’s going to have to be chucked by tomorrow,” John said with a sigh. “Have that cloth? Good. Milk doesn’t go in the freezer, no. You keep it here and finish it in about a week, or throw it out. Though you apparently know all about when to throw out. Lot of take-out containers I had to bin.”

Sherlock glanced over at the bin, which was now overflowing. “I don’t eat.”

“Not regularly,” John agreed, huffing as he bent further in and picked up each food item, cleaned under it, and deposited it back on the shelf. He wiped down the outside of the containers as well, and then placed the milk in the middle of the shelf. “Now, I know that there’s room up here, but this should be food _only_ , understand? As much as med students bring their work home, I think you’re taking it to a whole new level.”

“I’m not a med student,” he said blankly.

John frowned, looked down at the bits of human bodies, and then slowly straightened. “If you’re a cannibal I do hope you’ll understand when I say you’ll be arrested soon.”

“What? No—I’m a detective. These experiments help my cases in varying ways. Look, milk’s put away, all done.” With that, Sherlock hustled John out of the kitchen, closing the fridge behind them, and out of the flat. John went along well enough – Sherlock had the impression that if John really wanted to put up a fuss, he could have. On the doorstep, John gave Sherlock a measuring look and then shook his head.

It wasn’t a despairing look – Sherlock had had a few of those from various tutors and teachers throughout his life. It wasn’t a repulsed look either, the one that Anderson always used when he made it clear he was much happier far away from Sherlock. It wasn’t Donavon’s anger, or Lestrade’s confusion; it wasn’t Mycroft’s disgust or disappointment. It was… something else entirely. Considering, definitely, and there was both curiosity and wariness in the way John took pains to keep a distance between them though his eyes continuously slid over.

They walked a fair distance from the Tesco down Marylebone Road, heading towards an area where there were lots of clinics nearby. John, to the contrary of what Sherlock had initially suspected, was walking fine for how long they traveled, even with his still-obvious nervousness about inviting Sherlock to his house after seeing what was in Sherlock’s fridge. There was less trembling in his hand, as well, and Sherlock wondered whether being a boring, staid physician really was best for him.

They ended up on Marylebone High Street, to an unassuming and small flat that was probably exorbitantly priced. Sherlock eyed the surrounding flats, the lack of signs of other inhabitants, and concluded that this was probably far outside John’s price range; perhaps the army had been paying for it while he took some recovery sessions. Even with the doctor’s salary he must be getting, this place was around 1200 pounds a month at the least. Unless it was a weekly payment – unlikely, if John wasn’t sharing with anyone – in which case it would have been closer to 900 or 1000 pounds.

“Well, come on in,” John sighed. “I suppose if you’re going to murder me it would have been back at your flat.”

“I have no interest in murdering you at all,” Sherlock drawled, stepping inside and letting his eyes take in every little detail. John’s phone and keys were dumped on a tiny, serviceable but old table by the doorway, and all the furniture had the air of being worn out, worn down. Most probably came with the apartment; unlikely John’s pension allowed him to buy such luxuries. The living room was not separate from the kitchen, and the walls were starkly, depressingly bare. An open doorway revealed a tiny bedroom, a tiny desk, an old model laptop, and rumpled bedcovers. Of course, it was barely seven thirty in the morning; unlikely John would have done any cleaning before he left. Still, signs indicated that he left much earlier than six to reach the Tesco’s.

The inside of John’s fridge was almost as barren as Sherlock’s, and there was an inexplicable urge to make sure John was eating properly. Sherlock paused and considered the foreign emotion even as John said, “Are you interested in anything specific on your omelet, Sherlock?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Sherlock murmured, coming into the kitchen area.

There obviously wasn’t a lot done here. There was no telly, no stack of books. In fact, if Sherlock’s first glance could be trusted (and it could, because after all, he was _Sherlock Holmes_ ) most of John’s personal effects were still in boxes in his bedroom. There was nothing here to mark the area John’s own. Nothing at all. Turning to look over at John, he watched as the man pulled out two plates and cups, setting the table briskly as the pan on the stove began to heat up.

John moved confidently in his own space, though the tremble made his hands waver and made John bite his lip angrily. Sometimes, he would limp; sometimes he wouldn’t. He was the most interesting study of contradictions that before Sherlock could think better of it, he said suddenly, “How long are you going to remain in this flat?”

John’s hands paused over the pan before he took a slight breath in – his hands steadied, his posture grew more formal – and said mildly, “I can’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I’m looking for a flatmate, myself. We could split the cost; I did my landlady a good turn once, and she lowers the rent for me. Still, I – have been looking for a companion, as of late.”

John eyed Sherlock shrewdly. “No you haven’t,” he said plainly. “You probably come from old money of some kind, what with not knowing milk can spoil and not caring that it does, with the state of your floors and living room, as if you expect someone to clean up after you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson takes care of that,” Sherlock waved it off. “Are you interested?”

For a long moment, John stared at him, and then he turned back to the pan. “S’pose I already cleaned your fridge out anyway,” he muttered under his breath. “But you still haven’t explained the body parts in your fridge.”

“Oh, those are just experiments,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Nothing to get concerned over. I am a consulting detective.”

John spooned the omelet out onto the two plates and put the pan in the sink. “Consulting detective?”

“Only one in the world,” Sherlock confirmed with more than a touch of pride. It was, after all, justifiable pride, and he enjoyed showing off in what he did well.

“What, like a detective that consults with private firms or the like?” John prodded.

Sherlock smirked. “No, the police call me in to consult. In fact, just two days from now I expect them to ask for my services again. That business with the serial suicides, after all.”

“Saw that in the papers,” John murmured, nodding as he put salt and pepper on his omelet. “But why would the police consult an amateur?”

Sherlock could not resist the smug smile that curled the edge of his lip. “You’re living in a part of London that is typically reserved for the well-to-do, except your pension most likely doesn’t cover it, even with the added physician’s salary. You probably chose to come back here because you used to live here; no mother or father, or you’d be with them, but a relative – a brother, perhaps, judging by the picture and engraving on the phone. However, you’re not staying with your brother – jealousy over his ex-wife? Probably not; you’re not keen on breaking up people’s marriages and beyond that you’ve probably only met her the once or twice, though you may have liked her initially. No, more likely you’re upset with your brother, reason? His drinking; does it too much, perhaps a functioning alcoholic, someone you don’t see often even though they live in London. No, you’ve been looking for cheaper places to live while staying in London, though you’ve resigned yourself if you have to leave the city. And here I am, offering you a flat that will be vastly cheaper than this place, right by that Tesco you prefer, still not too far from the clinic you work at, right in the heart of London. Beyond that, I offer excitement, which is why you took me home; you miss the battlefield, and your boredom shows. You and I are alike in that respect, I think.”

John was sitting there, staring at Sherlock in surprise. “That… was fascinating!” he exclaimed. “Just like in the shop – but how could you have possibly known about Harry? About Clara, and that I’ve only seen her once?”

“Plainly enough, this is a very barren room, you’ve given no touch to it at all, your laptop’s old but serviceable, but your phone is new, very recent, and engraved. ‘To Harry, Love Clara’ – clearly a gift that a wife would give a husband, not a girlfriend to a boyfriend, not with how expensive it is. But you have it; he gave it to you because he broke up with her – if she’d dumped him, he’d have kept it. People do; sentiment. You didn’t have any qualms about taking it, so you don’t feel strongly in her favor at all, so you must not have been around her all that much, though you still feel enough for her that you have a picture that includes her along with you and your brother.”

“Sister.”

Sherlock paused, trying to place the word. “I’m sorry?”

“Harry’s my sister. Short hair, not a lot of chest, but she’s my sister. Other than that, you’re right about everything else.”

Sherlock let out a disappointed sigh. “There’s always one detail. _One_ detail.”

“Mmm,” John murmured, looking back down at his plate.

Pushing aside the missed detail, Sherlock let his smirk grow into a smile. “But you see, John, the police _don’t_ consult amateurs.”

For one heartbeat, John did nothing except hold Sherlock’s gaze levelly, weighing and judging, before he smiled in return.

“No, I suppose they don’t,” he replied with a hearty laugh.

 

***

 

“There’s a black car outside.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“A man is getting out, Sherlock, and he looks very distraught.”

“Mmm. Don’t mind him. In fact, can you pop out and grab some biscuits? He does love his sweets.”

John shot Sherlock an incredulous look, and Sherlock wondered, in the day and a half they’d been living together, if _this_ would make John leave and look at those other places he’d been looking at back in his old flat. But John just let out a sharp sigh, shook his head, and grabbed up his wallet. “I expect an explanation, Sherlock.”

“When have I ever kept one from you?” Sherlock murmured in reply, but John was already out the door and down the stairs. There was a short exchange of pleasantries, and then the door opened again.

The silence continued a long moment, but Sherlock – sprawled out over the couch, dressed in nothing but sweats and a dressing gown – refused to be the one to break the silence first. Finally, Mycroft sighed. “And who was that?”

“Come now, don’t tell me your minions have fallen down on the job. You know precisely who he is.”

“Yes, that I do. And I wonder how you managed to convince him to live here, when you rarely leave the flat for more than a half hour to an hour every morning. You know you can’t follow random strangers home; we’ve been over this before.”

Sherlock smiled and pointed lazily at the door. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn’t move from where he was standing in the middle of the room, and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at them. “Do you want me to find my violin?”

“You probably could, now,” Mycroft mused. “It isn’t nearly so messy. Is that it? You promised to pay him if he became a live-in nurse?”

“Have I demonstrated I can live on my own without falling into addiction effectively or not, Mycroft – that is _all_ you need to know. If you have nothing more intelligent to say, then perhaps you should take your leave.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a long moment before letting out a sigh and making his way to the door. “Rest assured, I will be looking deeper into this doctor, Sherlock. There must be an explanation to your randomness somewhere.”

Sherlock twisted his head to watch Mycroft go, the smirk settling into something softer on his lips. There was no explanation beyond one man’s kindness and simple gesture, and that was nothing more than sentiment – something Mycroft could not pretend to understand any more than Sherlock could himself.

 


End file.
